


Before Daylight

by feistymuffin



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Las Vegas Wedding, M/M, Sexual Content, Woke Up Married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-10 07:47:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15287007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feistymuffin/pseuds/feistymuffin
Summary: Hank and Connor have just finished working a special case in Las Vegas and they indulge in some much deserved down time before going home again... which is exactly why Hank wakes up with fuzzy memories and a ring on his finger.





	Before Daylight

    Through the din of the crowded hotel bar Hank hears his phone chime in his pocket and with clumsy fingers he drags it out. “Anderson,” he slurs promptly, gruffly, and the first thing he hears from the other end is a leaden sigh.

    “Please tell me you at least finished the case _before_ you got drunk,” Fowler growls in his ear.

    Hank snorts, looking to his right where Connor is perched on a barstool. The android’s balance is faintly wobbly, his eyes scattering around the bar curiously—no doubt taking in his surroundings with scans and analyses—but for now he seems to be, for the most part, functional. “You think I’d get any recreating done before we got the guy, with my stick-in-the-mud partner? Yeah, we finished it.”

    “And?” Fowler says impatiently, brusquely.

“Turns out the perp was the guy who owned the motel chain, thought it would be fun to make android snuff films for a neat profit and pin it on his in-law/business partner.” Hank downs the rest of his whiskey and motions to the passing bartender for another round for both himself and Connor, adding with some vinegar, “Sleazebag.”

    Fowler sighs again, this time in exasperation. “While I agree with you on that, I find myself obligated to mention that you’re still technically _on duty_ —”

    “The case is closed and we’re not at the precinct anymore,” Hank interrupts him, “which means my ass is drunk.”

    Hank can practically hear Fowler’s disapproval, but all the police captain says is a clipped, “Just be back in town for your shifts on Monday.”

    The line goes dead and Hank pulls his phone away from his ear to stare at it before tucking it back into his pocket. Fowler seemed touchier than usual, though that could have a lot to do with his current state, and while Hank isn’t quite intimidated by his old friend Fowler still occasionally manages to instil some amount of guilt in him over his actions.

If he had any guilt from the conversation it’s quickly wiped away as the bartender passes by again, and he sets a double whiskey at Hank’s fingertips and a beer at Connor’s. Hank nods his thanks before the man moves onto the other patrons, turning to Connor who’s regarding him with a slightly unfocused gaze.

“That was the captain, wasn’t it?” Connor asks him. His consonants are a little slurred even though he’s only three beers in but Hank would be lying if he said Connor’s low tolerance bothered him. It’s less alcohol to pay for in the end, and the few times they’ve drank together since Connor got the necessary modifications to be able to imbibe he’s shown that he’s not the type to get roaring drunk. Tipsy, yes. Buzzed, yes. Drunk? Sure. Blasted? Not a chance.

“Yep,” Hank replies, and takes a healthy sip from the tumbler in his hand. The alcohol burns like fire, its taste potent and its kick fierce as it slides across his tongue but Hank swallows it like water.

“What did he say?”

“Wanted to know about the case,” the lieutenant says, his voice marginally raised to be heard over the calamitous noise around them. “I told ‘im the gist of it.”

When Connor smiles it’s toothy and loose, relieved of the subtle, professional tension that the android usually shoulders like a mantle. Although still relatively fresh to the scene where indulgence is concerned, Connor’s taken to it exceptionally well. Much like any human his emotions and intentions become more easy to parse once he’s had a drink and for that Hank is incredibly thankful, but it also makes him wonder what kinds of thoughts are still hidden behind that plastic exterior.

    A movement beside him draws his attention, and Hank watches curiously, amusedly as Connor tipsily lifts his fourth bottle of beer in Hank’s direction. “To a job well done, Lieute—Lieut—Hank.”

    Clinking glass to bottle, Hank smirks and watches the tilt of his chin, the curve of his neck as Connor’s head tips back to drink. “Cheers, Con.”

* * *

When Hank awakes it’s with a long, tortured moan, direct sunlight cursing him the moment he cracks his eyes open and bounding right across the bed he’s sequestered in. His mouth is parched and cottony when he smacks his lips, his temples throbbing with every beat of his heart and drilling through his skull with unmatched precision to dig into his brain and cause another groan to crawl its way out of his throat before he’s even rolled over.

    He does roll over, then, to escape the offending sunlight but something solid and somewhat forgiving under his hand prevents him from getting far, and with dawning, horrific realization Hank registers several things at once.

    First, that he’s not alone. Second, that he has no idea _why_ he’s not alone. And third, that he has an unshakeable, unquestionable sensation of foreboding.

    It’s been years, over a decade since Hank’s had a one night stand, and he thought he’d rid himself of the urge of meaningless, temporary sex with his final bout of it in his late forties. He’s been disinterested with sex for almost as long, at least the kind of sex available to him, and while Hank isn’t doubting his situation—for it seems to be _very_ real—he is doubting his own decision-making. Why and how would he be tempted into sex, after so long not?

    Finally he stops avoiding it and opens his eyes to see what Creature from the Black Lagoon he’s saddled himself with—because it wouldn’t be the first time that drunk Hank’s standards were not comparable to sober Hank’s—but when he moves the blanket aside to identify his bedmate he lets out an involuntary noise of utter shock and lets the blanket fall again.

    _Connor?!_

Hank’s mind is whirling, trying to piece together the foggily elusive night before with desperate and clambering thoughts. Even drunk, even _completely hammered_ , what could’ve possessed him to take Connor to bed? And, he thinks with growing concern, what would’ve possessed Connor to agree?

    He doesn’t hide it from himself anymore, like he did during and immediately following the revolution, that he’s enamoured with Connor. It didn’t do him any good mentally or emotionally to deny it to himself, not when he had to interact with the android daily, and ultimately he knows it’s their working relationship, their friendship that he’d rather have than risk losing any of it for something deeper.

    Hank may not hide it from himself but he does, however, thoroughly hide it from everyone else. _Thoroughly_. This… This is not hiding it. This is presenting it on a silver platter, right under Connor’s cute little nose.

    Exhausted to the core of his bones Hank wearily wipes his hand over his face, but then he freezes mid-swipe at the foreign but familiar sensation, a sensation he left behind along with dark memories and darker thoughts. He doesn’t want to—he’d actually rather throw himself out the floor-to-ceiling window fifteen feet to his left—but slowly Hank pulls his trembling hand away from his face and pointedly looks at his third finger.

    There on his finger, nondescript and basic gold, sits a ring.

    With a disbelieving, panicky laugh Hank lets his hand fall to the bedspread, glancing over at Connor’s prone, “sleeping” form. He knows that his partner— _God, now doesn’t_ that _have a new connotation to it?_ Hank thinks dismally—has a “sleep” mode where he goes into a standby and pauses most of his processes, definitely but not exclusively necessary after nights out like the one yesterday. It gives his system time to flush out the alcohol and its effects, just like any human, but the difference is that where Hank gets a hangover, Connor is in significantly better shape come morning.

    Tentatively, cautiously Hank eases out of bed, shuffling over until he can swing his legs over the side and get to his feet. Once there, he’s unsure what to do besides head to the bathroom, padding delicately across the hotel room so he doesn’t disturb Connor, because the following conversation is one that he’s nowhere near ready for.

    In the bathroom with the door firmly shut and locked, more for peace of mind than for actually keeping out a being that can easily break down the door, Hank takes a long look at his reflection. He’s got his t-shirt on from the day before and his boxers, both of which don’t seem to have any evidence of sex on them, and when he strips to get in a quick, self-loathing shower he doesn’t find anything on his body either.

    _So, either we didn’t have sex, or we had the kind of sex that doesn’t leave messes._ It’s not as comforting as Hank wishes it was, but at least it’s something.

    The hot spray works miracles on his aching head and body, soothing the stabbing pains in his temples and easing the overall exhaustion plaguing him. After his shower he redresses in his clothes, damp skin clinging to the fabric and hair dripping moisture onto his shoulders, and makes his way back out to the bedroom. At first it seems as if Connor’s still asleep, but then the blankets start rustling and the android sits up in bed, dark hair deliciously mussed into bedhead and his eyes tired but clear. He looks around, blinking owlishly, and finds Hank standing half-in, half-out of the bathroom.

Slowly a smile creeps its way along his lips, starting small and growing until Connor is full-out grinning at him. It seizes something in Hank’s gut, leaving him feeling giddy and foolish, and he forces himself not to smile back.

    “Good morning, Hank,” Connor greets kindly, and there’s affection there now that wasn’t before—affection that makes him yearn for things he’s scarcely allowed himself to think about, never mind entertain the possibility of.

    Hank isn’t about to deal with a honeymooning android, and his responsive grunt speaks volumes on his tolerance for the morning, good or not. Irritation rampant, he stalks to the window only to turn and move back toward the door. On his way past the bed he can’t help but notice, as Connor’s eyes follow his pacing, the glint off of Connor’s left ring finger.

    “You seem agitated,” Connor notes, and the cheer in his voice is gone. Good. Hank can’t handle Connor if he’s going to act like… like he just got married the night before. Fuck.

    Stopping at the bar off to the side of the window and greatly resisting making himself a neat whiskey, Hank rubs his hands over his face. “Yeah, Con, you could say I’m _agitated._ ”

    “I see,” Connor says, slow, quiet. There’s a beat of silence, tense on both ends as Hank wholeheartedly avoids looking in Connor’s direction out of both denial and embarrassment, and then, “Am I… to understand that you regret the events of last night?”

    “You don’t?” Hank snorts, and the sound is too rude but he can’t take it back and he certainly won’t apologize for it. When Connor doesn’t reply Hank has to look at him, only to see his brown eyes downcast on the bedding over his lap, errantly fidgeting with the band around his finger. “You don’t,” Hank says again, soft with comprehension as he stares.

    Connor… wants him. Connor wants _him,_ an old, fat, washed up cop with raging alcoholism and a whole graveyard full of skeletons in his closet. He doesn’t know what to say, what he _could_ say to something that’s so unbelievable, so ludicrous that he has to hold in a slightly hysterical bark of laughter.

    Connor doesn’t look up, doesn’t glance at him, doesn’t _anything_. He seems to force himself to stop touching the ring on his left hand, and now he’s the one avoiding Hank’s eye as he gets out of bed. He stands there in his underwear and t-shirt, bland and white, and neither of them moves. For a brief moment Connor’s LED gyrates in a happy, bright yellow at his temple, and then it circles back to its default blue.

    “I’ve filed for an annulment,” Connor tells him, but he still doesn’t look up. When Hank doesn’t speak, too shocked by the revelation that Connor _actually wants this_ , he murmurs, “It should process by Monday afternoon.”

    Hank’s mouth flaps uselessly for a long, long time, trying to form words that simply elude him. Connor _can’t_ want to stay married to him. Connor can’t have possibly wanted to marry him in the first place. Doesn’t he know a lost cause when he sees one? Can’t he see that he’s got so many other options?

They’ve been partners for over a year, closely knit in the new, burgeoning world of android freedom, and in all that time Connor never said a single damn thing to him. Not a single damn thing, after all they’d been through? Hank stifles the urge to curse wildly, instead gritting his teeth against the thought that Connor hid something so huge from him. The hypocrisy of that isn’t lost on him, but Hank is beyond caring at this point as he stands there trying to form a sentence, any sentence to rid Connor of the defeated expression on his handsome face.

Fucking Vegas. There’s a reason why everything that happens here stays here.

“Listen, Connor,” Hank begins, hands out placatingly like a soft approach will somehow fix this. Connor doesn’t look at him, brow furrowed and eyes on the carpet under his bare feet as if he stares at it hard enough it’ll reveal some solution. “I’m… I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“It’s perfectly alright, Lieutenant,” Connor says neutrally without looking up, his face a perfect mask, and that hurts more than anything. Going so sharply from being “Hank” to being “Lieutenant” again, after Connor woke up and smiled at him like he hung the moon… It sets off a hard ache in his chest, one that clenches his throat and makes his next swallow more of a gulp.

_Fix it,_ Hank tells himself firmly when Connor shuffles his feet, nervously shifting his weight in the awkward silence. “Tell me something, Con,” he prompts, aiming for casual but missing by a mile when his voice comes out strained.

Connor glances up. “What is it?”

The android peers at him, big brown eyes wide as he waits for the question, and one of the tight, self-inflicted vices around Hank’s heart loosens. He shoves down whatever misplaced pride and self-sacrifice he has left and lets go—lets go of all the reasons why they shouldn’t, why they can’t. He lets himself _want_ , selfishly, for the first time in a long damn time, and when he takes a definitive step toward Connor it doesn’t feel like a mistake.

“How long,” Hank murmurs, “were you going to hide this from me?”

“Indefinitely,” is Connor’s immediate, hushed reply. “You never needed to know.”

So he was going about this the same way Hank was, with an iron fist securely against any romantic relationship. This next question is harder to choke out, but Hank manages. “And… And how long have you known how I feel about you?”

“Since Christmas,” Connor tells him softly, “when you bought me that garish tie.”

Over two months ago. “You still wore it,” Hank points out, and when Connor’s head dips in a small nod Hank realizes quite suddenly _why_ Connor wore the admittedly horrendous tie. _He loves you, idiot,_ a tiny voice tells him snidely, and Hank’s finding that harder and harder to dispute.

_He loves me,_ Hank thinks, testing the words, and the simple thought carries so much more weight than he ever expected. It’s a promising weight, heaving with it a sense of incredible fulfillment that coalesces inside him in bursts, leaving him feeling raw and exposed and _alive_.  

    “Is it possible to cancel a request for annulment?” Hank blurts before his courage fails him.

    “I—yes,” Connor says, slow and trepid, clearly waiting for the rug to be yanked from beneath him.

    “Cancel it,” Hank says as firmly as he can, and watches Connor’s eyebrows perform a complicated series of movements—first lowering and then spiking upward before curling down at the edges, as if he’s fully unable to comprehend what he’s just heard. He waits for what seems like a lifetime but Connor simply stares at him in befuddlement, so he prods gently, “Cancel it, please.”

    Tediously Hank waits, eyes flitting between Connor’s deep, tumultuously expressive eyes and his swirling blue LED. He waits for breathless seconds, and then he sees a flicker of yellow seep through his LED before it turns cerulean once more.

    “It’s done,” Connor murmurs. Dark brown irises pierce him where he stands, asking questions too important to name and leaving Hank feeling a bit like Swiss cheese, perforated and sporadically transparent in all the spots where he’s vulnerable, but he still takes another purposeful step in Connor’s direction. The android doesn’t move, just watches him approach like a wounded gazelle being circled by a predator, big eyes almost accusatory as they study Hank’s uneven gait.

    Hank remembers the ring on his finger a few paces away from Connor, spins it idly with his thumb and decidedly enjoys the rush of _home_ he gets when he feels the warm metal sliding along his skin as he looks right into Connor’s face.

    “Hank, I don’t understand,” Connor says when they’re toe-to-toe. He’s lost the kicked puppy look, at least, and traded it for amply confused curiosity.

    “You trying to tell me you can’t piece this one together, Con?” Hank asks him, smiling crookedly.

    “You have not been forthcoming with useful information,” Connor says succinctly, a little huffily. His gaze is wary when Hank’s hand curls around his bicep, when he stands so close that they share breathing space, but he doesn’t move away. If anything Hank feels the android lean into his touch.

“Hazard a guess,” Hank suggests.

Briefly Connor’s mouth quirks in thought, though Hank suspects it’s more to do with amusement than it is thoughtfulness. “Do you love me?” Connor asks him, and it would sound normal if not for the waver in his voice.

“Yes,” Hank tells him, refusing to shy away from it even though his gut blossoms with fear at the admission. It puts so much power in Connor’s hands, but Hank’s never seen a more capable handler than his partner.

    Then Connor smiles, a beaming little smile that spreads into a blissfully happy grin, and Hank can’t help it—he grips Connor’s jaw in both hands and brings their mouths together delicately, giving Connor all the room and time in the world to recede.

    It’s unnecessary, though, because as soon as their lips meet Connor makes a soft noise and twists both hands in the cloth of Hank’s shirt, pressing their bodies together in one harmonious motion. The feeling of Connor’s chest flush to his own robs Hank of breath—they’ve hugged a few times but this has _intent_ , this has unadulterated lust and emotion on both sides—and when he inhales in a short gasp Connor draws back just enough to look him square in the eye.

    “Did I do something displeasing?” Connor wonders.

    “Displeasing, hell,” Hank grunts, and with a hand on the back of Connor’s neck he hauls him in for another, deeper kiss. Mouths clash, and Hank’s breaths fill the quiet room as he guides Connor through the proper way to kiss: how to tilt his head and get a better angle, what to do with his tongue, how much pressure to apply. Connor is a remarkably quick study and soon he’s nudging Hank backwards until the lieutenant’s back hits the wall beside the bed, his lips unfairly adept at fraying Hank’s mind into scattered threads.

    Eventually Hank has to put a hand to Connor’s chest and ease him back long enough to catch his breath, which gusts past his lips at an embarrassingly fast rate. _Out of sorts from just fucking kissing,_ he thinks, not without bitterness, but Connor crowds him again before he can really dwell on it.

    This time the android goes for his neck, pressing small kisses over his jugular before nibbling the skin there with blunt, straight teeth. Hank squeezes his eyes shut and lets out a slow, low groan when Connor nips him a little harder and Connor eases back, maybe to ask him if he’d done something “displeasing” again, but Hank doesn’t give him the chance and instead reverses their positions, pinning Connor to the wall.

    “Hey, Con,” Hank says conversationally, and feels an excessive amount of fondness when Connor tilts his head slightly in reply. He smiles, smoothing a hand up Connor’s firm chest. “Remember that talk we had that time at Jimmy’s, first time you came out drinking with me?”

    Connor blinks. “When you asked me how I feel physical sensations?”

    “That’s the one.” Hank swallows his nerves— _Don’t choke, don’t choke, don’t choke_ —and presses on, “I know you can’t really feel pain, but what about… pleasure?”

    “I’m fully equipped with an abundance of pleasure sensors,” Connor tells him, and Hank is definitely not imagining the affection in his voice. He must see Hank’s train of thought because he continues unabashedly, “I’m also fully capable of sexual intercourse and orgasm.”

    Hank snorts, running a hand through his damp hair. “Alright, thanks for the clarification. I guess the next question is—”

    “Yes,” Connor interrupts him, and Hank raises his eyebrows. “I’m assuming your next question was, “Do you want to have sex?” and my answer is yes.”

    Helplessly Hank chuckles, holding a hand to Connor’s neck and stroking his pulse with the pad of his thumb. Connor’s eyelids flutter and his chin tilts up to expose his neck, practically begging for further touching. It’s easy for Hank to oblige him, to bend and kiss the crook of his shoulder and neck, to leave a trail of them all the way up to his jaw and further on to his mouth.

    “You know,” Hank murmurs to his lips, but already Connor is ravenous for more, linking an arm around his neck and hauling Hank close with significant strength. Their kiss is fiery, lacking composure in all its forms and when Connor tugs him urgently toward the empty bed Hank readily follows, pushing Connor down onto his back to crawl over his body.

    Instead of kissing him, though, Connor’s hands come up to cradle his face, his eyes mysteriously determined as they rove over Hank’s features, fingertips caressing where they brush his bearded cheeks. That look starts to unweave something solid and immovable in Hank, and it’s with timorous resolve that he acknowledges the love in those eyes. It’s a bit of a pill to swallow, being loved again. Hank’s had little to do with affection in virtually all its facets over the past few years, increasingly so, but Connor’s laying waste to all his progress of inner walls, knocking them down and striding steadily in.

“You’re staring, Con,” Hank says a little mirthfully, but he’s eyeing him back with an apprehensive gaze.

Connor blinks slowly and his fingers stroke down Hank’s cheek until he gently cups a hand at his ear, stroking the damp grey hair tucked behind it. “So are you,” Connor whispers, and pulls him down.

    Hank goes willingly, lowering his body onto the android, and Connor lets out a small, pleased hum before their lips meet. Immediately Hank feels the bare skin of Connor’s legs against his own, briefly but effectively distracting him from Connor’s tongue, and without thought he lets a palm run down Connor’s side until he can hook his hand under his knee and lift it to drape around his hip. Connor—smart, wonderful Connor—gets the hint at once and repeats the motion with his other leg and then Hank can feel _all_ of him pressed against his groin, more of Connor’s anatomy than he’d ever thought possible to feel. He feels Connor’s cock through their underwear, stiffening just like Hank’s, feels the subtle stick and slide of their skin as both of them get warmer, breaths becoming heavier.

    When Hank rolls his hips, grinding Connor’s body down into the bed, the android breaks the kiss to inhale sharply and claw his fingers in Hank’s shirt. _More of that,_ Hank thinks with greed bleeding from him, and does it again to great reward.

    Connor’s moan is soft, barely there but so wobbly that Hank instinctively pulls away to look at him. His pale cheeks are flushing a delicate blue, dark chocolate eyes half-dazed, and Hank doesn’t let him catch his breath before he dives in again, crushing their mouths together and leading the kiss somewhere filthy and deep. He starts a slow grind, rolling his body down onto his partner and devouring every little sound he makes. Seems like those sensors are working just fine.

    “Hank, please,” Connor says unevenly against his lips. Hank’s hands are at his waist and bringing them snugly together with every gyration of his hips, and he doesn’t pause at the plea. “ _Hank_ —”

    “What?” Hank murmurs, leaning away to look into his eyes.

    Connor’s face, if possible, gets bluer. “Undress me, please.”

    Hank’s gut springs like a taut coil and he’s already reaching for the hem of Connor’s shirt before he’s given himself the order to move. In one smooth movement he rids Connor of his white t-shirt and then avidly admires what was beneath, even as he shuffles back to slip Connor’s boxers down his long legs.

    Connor doesn’t squirm or look embarrassed as Hank tosses both his clothing items off the bed. He seems fully comfortable with his nudity, but he doesn’t look at ease—rather, he’s fidgeting again with the gold band on his finger, eyeing Hank shiftily.

    It’s then that Hank remembers his own ring, what the two mean together for both of them, and what he’s agreed to let happen. He’s married, Connor is his husband, but neither of those facts have any affect on how badly Hank’s need is growing. Impulsively he touches the ring on his left hand, gazing hungrily at Connor’s subtly flushed blue, fully erect cock. He’s average-sized, which is about what Hank was expecting—Connor’s not a sex or lifestyle model, after all—and the way Connor’s chest heaves with unneeded breaths tells him just how much Hank’s doing to him.

    Hank tugs off his own shirt and kicks out of his boxers, leaving nothing between them. He tries not to let the differences in their physiques get to him, he really does, but when he feels his modest belly press against the perfection of Connor’s _everything_ Hank has to push it from his mind, instead clinging onto one thought. “Well, Mr. Anderson,” he says lowly, and he doesn’t get the spike of fear and panic that he expects but instead a ridiculously pleasing sensation of belonging. Connor’s eyes open wide and in such close range Hank isn’t equipped to deal with how adorable it is, Connor’s look of wondrous elation, and he finds it impossible not to pause his sentence and kiss Connor blind.

    Connor’s hands roam his back, nails digging slightly into his ribs as Hank aligns their cocks and wraps a hand around them both, mouth moving urgently over Connor’s and capturing his noise of surprise. Steadily Hank moves his hand a few times, testing the slide, and Connor’s head falls back with a tiny guttural sound that sparks hot lust in Hank’s stomach.

    He bites at Connor’s neck instead, stroking their cocks surely. He worries as he does, though, feeling the noticeable contrast in their sizes. He’s far from small and this will be Connor’s first time, though Hank is somewhat comforted by the fact that he can’t actually feel pain. Still, he’d much rather not damage Connor than have sex, as much as his libido tries to tell him otherwise.

    “Connor,” Hank says breathily, and Connor makes a euphoric sound of assent, “I don’t have any lube and you need some, uh, prep if I’m going to fuck you.”

    “I can lubricate myself,” Connor tells him, lifting his head to lay foggy, lustful eyes on Hank’s face, eyes that bore through him like molten metal. “Do whatever you want to me.”

    Hank’s breath seizes in his chest at both the visual and the possibilities of that request, and he grips Connor’s face firmly to kiss him before backing away again and refocusing his attention between Connor’s legs. True to his word, Hank can see the traces of lubricant around Connor’s hole, which he brushes two fingertips over to judge its slipperiness. At the touch Connor jerks, hands clenching in the bedding on either side of him, and with his interest piqued Hank slowly pushes a finger inside him to the knuckle.

    Connor _keens_ , legs splaying wide and hips squirming, and as he meets Hank’s fiery eyes he gets out a strangled, “ _M-more._ ”

    “Fuck, Con,” Hank breathes. He’s painfully hard now just watching Connor fall apart under his touch, and obligingly when he retracts his finger and pushes back in, he adds another. Connor’s thighs tremble and he moans, his cock starting to drizzle a thin string of precum onto his stomach, and Hank watches his face for any sign of discomfort as he starts a smooth rhythm of thrusting two fingers into Connor’s tight ass.

    “More,” Connor begs, his chest just slightly flushed with blue, and when Hank adds another finger his whole body shudders but he shakes his head. “More, Hank, I want—”

    “I don’t want to hurt you,” Hank murmurs, smoothing a hand up Connor’s blushing chest and noting the ring on his finger for what feels like the hundredth time. _Husband. Married._

    “You won’t,” Connor promises, and when he reaches for Hank the human readily lowers onto his body, kissing him soundly and lazily grinding their bodies together. It doesn’t last long, though, before Connor is whining into his mouth, “Hank—”

    “My fucking god, you’re pushy, aren’t you?” Hank teases him, but he does as asked, shuffles onto his knees and lines up his cockhead with Connor’s slick hole. He pauses there, giving Connor a stern look. “Promise you’ll tell me if something goes wrong.”

    “I promise,” Connor says. His dark eyes are worshipping when then land on Hank, and Hank doesn’t know what to do with that, can’t possibly deal with that while he’s already so wound up and engulfed by emotion just by being in this situation so he simply pushes his hips forward, reveling in Connor’s broken, choked moan.

    _Fuck, he’s tight_. Hank’s hands shake where they hold onto Connor’s thighs, his body a clenching, wet vice around his cock and milking him of any final rational thought. When he grips tightly at Connor’s waist he sees his ring again, glistening in the bright morning light, and he glances over to see the same thing on Connor’s left hand, still tangled in bedding as a helpless anchor to his pleasure.

    _Connor is my husband. We’re married,_ Hank thinks with mild, lingering hysteria, but it’s quickly chased by overwhelming love and a prime sense of luckiness. Thankfully he’s distracted when he bottoms out, nudging his hips a few times into Connor’s and testing the tight, slick drag, and Connor’s body twitches as he garbles out a soft groan.

    _Connor is my husband,_ he thinks again, and this time it sends fireworks bursting through his chest as he stares down at Connor’s splayed, shaking limbs, his expression one of love and awe.

Even as Hank pulls back to push into him again just as deep, Connor lifts a hand to grab securely at Hank’s wrist and begs, “ _Harder._ ”

“Connor, Jesus,” Hank says, uneven and strained, but he still obeys. Hank snaps his hips forward on his next thrust into Connor, repeating the move when Connor’s head falls back and he moans throatily, back arching high off the bed. The picture he makes is so compelling, blue-flushed skin everywhere, cock leaking and attributing to Hank’s attentions, mouth gaped open in pleasure, that Hank is having difficulty keeping his mind on the task at hand. Shaking himself, Hank thrusts brutally hard, hard enough to shift Connor up the bed with each one and Connor’s reply is a high whimpering moan, perfect white teeth coming together to clamp over his plush bottom lip.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Hank groans, hips slapping harshly into Connor’s, his laboured breathing and the sounds of flesh colliding the only noises alongside the android’s steady stream of noises, varying in intensity and volume. Connor moans loudest when Hank angles himself a little upward so he strives for the same spot, apparently and blessedly seeming to hit the mark more often than not, if Connor’s devolvement into cut-off cries and half-started screams is any indication.

Desperately Hank feels himself reaching a pinnacle of heat in his body, a tingling en masse in his body that swirls through him and coaxes him to completion. He thrusts hard, growling under his breath at the exertion as he fucks Connor violently, short, rough thrusts that seem to catch all sound in the android’s throat, rendering him nearly speechless.

Hank’s barely had the thought of touching his cock when Connor convulses under him, moaning harshly and spurting a stripe of cum up his own stomach as his whole body trembles. For a second he’s tense as a drawn cord, and then his body goes lax under Hank, his eyes fall shut and his expression slackens.

Hank swears his heart stops, then, and dread and panic claw through him at an alarming speed. He grips his partner by the shoulders, shaking him hard. “Connor? Connor!”

It takes a few long, breathless seconds but slowly Connor blinks his eyes open again, looking thoroughly dazed and confused. He stares up at Hank and then smiles dopily, reaching up to touch his fingertips to Hank’s lips.

Hank grabs his hand and kisses it, laughing breathlessly even as his body shakes with the need for release. “Jesus, Connor, what the fuck was that?”

Connor frowns slightly, but it doesn’t stick around long since Hank is kissing his knuckles one by one. “I believe I was jarred into a temporary standby mode due to… excessive physical contact.”

Hank laughs a little harder, grinding his hips into Connor smoothly, feeling the dragging of his body around his cock. “So I fucked you into standby?”

Connor hums, nodding, and slowly arches as Hank picks up his speed again, striking deeper with every motion. He must be oversensitive—does that still work the same for androids?—but Connor shows no signs of discomfort, only what appears to be endless pleasure, made obvious by his climbing moans.

Impatience is creeping up on him, though, and Hank throws his caution to the wind, hoisting Connor’s hips up to the right spot against him so he can fuck him hard into the mattress. It has the desired effect—almost immediately Hank feels climax approaching, and it’s with a leaden groan that he orgasms inside Connor to the sound of his partner’s satisfaction, feeling his cum adding to the lubrication already within him and creating a slippery mess that, as Hank catches his breath and pulls out, leaks from Connor’s hole in a slow dribble.

Sated beyond recognition, Hank flops back onto the pillows with a sigh. At once he feels Connor shifting around, and then he’s joined on his left side by the android, snuggling up to him and wriggling beneath his arm to get comfortable.

Hank rubs his back in slow strokes, an absent-minded action as his thoughts whirl with reality now that sex has been set aside. Can they make this work? He stares down at Connor’s wicked bedhead, dark strands flying in every direction, and brings him just a little closer. He wants it to work, and they’ve been partners for over a year with virtually no hiccups. That bodes well for them, right? But what about the precinct, and Fowler? Would this be considered misconduct? Since they got married and didn’t just screw around, maybe it doesn’t count.  

He holds his silence, keeping his thoughts to himself, and smiles as he kisses Connor’s messy hair. He feels the press of Connor’s palm into his chest and looks down, seeing the glint of his ring, and his smile broadens.

“Mr. Anderson,” Hank says softly, and Connor goes very still before slowly looking up at him with big brown eyes. Hank rubs his arm, holding him close, and murmurs, “You’ve given me one hell of a honeymoon.”

He watches Connor’s smile spread over his lips, feels the way his body curls that much closer to him and with a full heart he presses a chaste kiss to the bridge of his nose.

“Likewise, Hank,” Connor says, his voice low and gentle, and together they lounge in their hard won, self-fulfilled happiness.


End file.
